


Tuesday Evenings

by lha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Everyday, Fluff, Gen, Music, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lha/pseuds/lha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuesday evening between 6.30 and 9pm were as close to sacrosanct as anything could be in Mycroft Holmes’ schedule and had been since shortly after he had joined the Civil Service.  It was a luxury really, but one that had played a part in maintaining his sanity over the years and even now, after a long day in a week that was still spilling over from the previous Thursday, his heart lifted a little when Anthea appeared in front of his desk with his worn brown leather music satchel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday Evenings

**Author's Note:**

> This is sheer self-indulgence as the image struck me full on in the middle of my own rehearsal this week. The Whitehall Choir really does exist but no infringement intended.

Tuesday evening between 6.30 and 9pm were as close to sacrosanct as anything could be in Mycroft Holmes’ schedule and had been since shortly after he had joined the Civil Service. It was a luxury really, but one that had played a part in maintaining his sanity over the years and even now, after a long day in a week that was still spilling over from the previous Thursday, his heart lifted a little when Anthea appeared in front of his desk with his worn brown leather music satchel. 

“It’s ten past six, Sir,” The lightness he had felt was tempered momentarily as he glanced back at the report he had been working on. “It’ll still be there later or dare I suggest, tomorrow morning.”

“You may suggest all you like,” he said, allowing the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards but with a final glance at the file, he pushed his chair back and stood. 

“Wallet, phone, other phone.” Anthea said, the mantra she repeated every time he left the office without her. 

“Yes, yes and yes. Did my Brahms arrive?”

“It did and I’ve replaced your pencil,” 

“You are a true gem Anthea,” he said as he accepted the worn leather case and selected an umbrella from the stand by the door.

“You have breakfast scheduled at number 11 tomorrow at 7.30 but there’s nothing that needs done before then.”

“Enjoy your evening off Anthea,” he said by way of response. 

It was a cool and damp evening, but Mycroft liked the ten minute walk as it allowed him to compartmentalise whatever it was he had been dealing with before he had left the office. Only a few weeks into his first term at boarding school and approaching the tender age of seven, the music master had pulled him up after assembly and asked if he would audition for the chapel choir. He had said yes because he had been taught that when an adult asked you to do something then you did it but it had turned out to be a saving grace. There had been music in their family home, but somehow being part of it, of actually helping create it had opened up a whole new dimension to him. Throughout his schooling he had continued to sing even when his pure treble descended into a smooth base and it had been his voice, as well as his grades, that had guaranteed him a place at any Oxbridge college he wanted.

“Evening!” One of the alto’s greeted him, as they turned into the doorway of St Stephen’s Church. 

“Good evening,” he returned, relishing the fact that it was perfectly acceptable that he had no idea what her name was. .

“Alright,” Colin, a fellow bass and a doctor by trade greeted him, stepping aside to allow him into his regular seat, “we missed you last week.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” he rebuffed gently, “unfortunately there was something at work that I couldn‘t get away from.” He was just another lowly civil servant here, based in the Home Office but with the sort of portfolio that meant non of the other civil servants in the choir were surprised that they didn’t come across him through the course of work. 

“Oh, I think Ian was ready to tear his hair out but that’s nothing new.” Several brisk claps from the front of the room, resulted in a hush settling over the seventy members of the Whitehall Choir. 

“Right, on your feet,” Ian, the Musical Director, instructed, “Let’s start with a C, Morley,” he said, looking across to the accompanist who provided a C major chord with a flourish before returning to the task of removing his outer coat. They ran through a couple of scales on various vowel sounds, their pitching improving as their ears adjusted and voices warmed up. “Let’s try,” Ian said pausing for a moment, “volcano/kitchen implement this week.” Mycroft could almost feel himself relaxing as the challenge of the tongue twister required him to focus on something entirely mundane for a while. 

“Popocatepetl, Copper plated Kettle, Popocatepetl, Copper plated Kettle, Popocatepetl, Copper plated Kettle, Popocatepetl, Copper plated Kettle.” There was a general murmur of amusement as they all collapsed onto the last note of the scale. 

“Hmmm,” was the wry verdict from the conductor, “let’s not forget our consonants shall we. Let’s start with the Brahms, we haven’t looked at it yet so I want run it right through - so keep going even if the wheels do fall off.” 

As Mycroft opened his score and Morley struck up the opening chords, he allowed himself to be swept away in the music. He spoke German rather well which helped with the pronunciation and though it had been at least fifteen years since he had last sung this particular Requiem, he found sections of it came back with reassuring ease. His last score had met with some form of disaster that he was fairly certain must have been Sherlock’s fault but still, different conductor’s always had their idiosyncrasies so he watched carefully, noting the phrases that were cut off early and where Ian was trying to draw them through. There was more than one hairy moment but that was what rehearsals were for, and by the time they broke for tea they were more than ready for it. 

Reaching into his pocket, Mycroft searched out the requisite fifty pence for his tea and a biscuit as he greeted some of the others who had been seated further away. They mingled at the back of the hall drinking milky tea out of paper cups, Mycroft happy to listen and relish the rare treat of a chocolate digestive.

“I like Brahms but singing in German is like trying to speak with a mouthful of marbles,” James, one of the more adept Tenors complained.

“It’s just a different mindset really,” someone else chipped in, “I have a tendency to try and pronounce it all as if it were French. Alex is setting me right though, aren’t you?”

“Ja,” replied the German dryly, “just as Mycroft corrects all our Latin.” Inclining his head at the round of chuckles that met this, he took their jibing lightly.

“Guilty as charged,” he conceded.

“Pint when we’re done?” Colin asked.

“Think I’m going to need it if we’re looking at the Britten next.” Alex grumbled.

“Could be worse, it could be Kodály,” James pointed out, “or for that matter some of my Sixth forms compositions.” 

“I rather enjoyed the Missa Brevis,” Mycroft countered.

“We’re going to ignore that,” Colin said with a smile, “Not up to their usual standards James?”

“If I get this lot through A-level it’ll be a miracle, back to the point though, pub - Mycroft?”

“Oh, I suspect I might be tempted,” he admitted, checking his watch and realising that they had better be getting back to their seats.

Between Britten, Purcell and Vaughn-Williams, the next hour and a half disappeared as fast as the first had and the civil servant had to admit to being surprised when Ian put down his baton. They were packed up and outside before the discussion of where they were headed started.

“The Horses Head is by far the most pleasant of our recent ventures,” Mycroft offered, tensing at the discrete buzz of one of his phones in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he offered, taking a step back before answering

“How was your rehearsal, Sir?” Anthea asked, signalling that there would be no pint for him this week.

“Most enjoyable,” he replied then waited for her to tell him what had gone wrong in the space of the last three hours. He wondered, as he processed the latest example of Ministerial incompetence, which excuse he would proffer on this occasion, after all lowly civil servants were hardly called into work with the regularity he had to miss rehearsals, concerts and as tonight, social opportunities. 

“Horses Head it is,” Alex declared as he returned to the group.

“I’m afraid I’ll not be able to join you, my neighbour has succeeded in locking herself out of her flat and I happen to be in possession of her spare key.” 

“Frustrating,” Colin commiserated.

“Indeed, but she‘d do the same for me. I’ll see you all next week I’m sure.” 

Goodnights were offered and acknowledged before he extended an arm to hail a passing cab. Two blocks later, he alighted the vehicle, paying the driver just as his usual car pulled up behind it. He was back on the phone and speaking Arabic to someone halfway around the world before Anthea had even instructed the driver where to go. Just another Tuesday evening really.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I'd love to hear what you think! thanks for reading


End file.
